


Unsent Messages

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, I dont know how to tag, Letters, M/M, Pining, i hope you enjoy, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Before the fall, Sherlock made it so that a text containing his true feelings would be sent to John upon his death.
Though the message was changed, it was not sent.





	

Sherlock had always divorced himself from emotion. For the most part he was successful. Then came along John Watson-wonderful, brave, kind John- and the stubborn army doctor wormed his way past all of the detective’s cold, icy walls and into the warm, soft and caring heart underneath. Sherlock was in love. And it truly terrified him.  
Before he fell, he knew he was going to die. ‘The final problem’ was his reputation being ruined and them him dying. Before he went up to the roof to meet Moriarty, he set up what would really be his note, just in case something went wrong. He made it so, when his heart had stopped for so long that he was medically considered dead, a text would be send to John with its contents reading the following:  
_‘Hello John,_  
_This is Sherlock. I set up a system so that this text would be sent to you upon my death. ___  
_This was created before I left for the rooftop, so I don’t know what happens but know this; I never lied to you John, except in regard to one thing. ___  
_For my whole life I’ve been bored. I divorced myself from emotion. But then you, John, you came along. You showed me emotion was a bad thing; that caring wasn’t a bad thing. You are fascinating, not ordinary, not boring. You made me care though. You made me care so much it nearly tore me apart. ___  
_Why? ___  
_It’s because I love you. ___  
_I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry for all the hurt or pain I have ever caused you. ___  
_I’m sorry. ___  
_-Sherlock Holmes’ ___  
After he fell, he left for his mission, heartbroken from the broken voice John had used a he looked at his ‘corpse’. He expected to leave, he expected to hear John break down, but it didn’t stop any of it from hurting him. It struck him in the heart like a bullet. Before leaving, he adjusted the message:  
_‘Hello John. ___  
_This is Sherlock. I set this up before I jumped, so that this would be sent to you upon my death. It wasn’t sent to you the moment I jumped, because I faked my death. I’m sorry, but I had to. Moriarty’s snipers were going to kill you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson unless I fell. ___  
_Now I’m on a mission; a mission to destroy Moriarty’s network utterly and completely. He is dead, but his empire still lives on, as dangerous as ever. If I returned before it was destroyed, his men might come to kill you and the others. I can’t let that happen. You receiving this means I failed. ___  
_I’m sorry, John. You are the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. You are the only friend I’ve ever had. You are the only one who stopped the boredom, who brought back the emotions I tried so hard to ignore. ___  
_I jumped off that roof to save you. I jumped off that roof because… ___  
_It’s because I love you. I have always loved you. ___  
_I’m sorry. John, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for the pain of me falling. ___  
_It hurt me too. ___  
_Don’t forget me, but move on. It shouldn’t be hard; we haven’t lived together that long. Move on, and don’t live in pain. Move on for me. ___  
_Goodbye John. ___  
_-Sherlock Holmes’ ___  
Then, Sherlock returned. The message, once again, was never sent.  
As he reached the restaurant he knew John was dining at, Sherlock planned everything out. He would go in and wait for the right time to reveal himself to John. Then… he would tell John how he felt.  
He entered the restaurant. Ice blue eyes scanned the patrons, until the owner of them saw John. It was John, it was really John; sweet, kind John. His heart leapt in his chest, before quickly falling down into a cold chasm. It felt as if all the breath had been violently knocked from his chest by some invisible force.  
John was holding a small box; one which clearly contained a ring.  
He knew John might have, would have, moved on. He thought he was prepared for it, but he clearly wasn’t, or he at least didn’t expect John to be in a relationship when he got back. In a long term relationship which would clearly become martial soon.  
Sherlock pretended to be a waiter and walked over to John, got his order and went to collect the champagne from the kitchen. His mind was racing with possible plans as he walked back towards John with the bottle. As he saw a woman sitting opposite him, his mind was overcome with panic. His plan was hurriedly scrapped, replaced with rash and stupid decisions.  
He had panicked and now John hated him.  
Luckily, after the whole affair with the bonfire (from which he received second degree burns after running in for John; he would do it again in an instant) and the terrorists (it may have been a cruel move, saying the bomb would go off, but it yielded results) John had forgiven him. Though Sherlock was delighted, they still had the grim prospect of the wedding.  
Preparations had been a nightmare. Every second was a reminder that John was leaving him, after so little time having him back. Every second was a reminder he would have to act happy for the couple even if his heart was breaking on the inside. Every second was a reminder he would have to give John away.  
However these thoughts paled in comparison to actually having to go through with these acts. By the end of the day, he knew how Major Sholto had felt, having a knife lodged in his insides the whole time. In the end, he finally broke. He couldn’t take it; seeing everyone dance, one of his greatest passions, but being all alone, without anyone (without John) to dance with. It tore apart the last shard of his heart.  
He left, consumed with anger and jealousy and betrayal and sadness. It was a cocktail of foul emotions, whirling around like a maelstrom in his head. He arrived at the flat and quickly got out his emergency stash. He hadn’t thought about it since John had come into his life and flipped it upside down, destroying his emotional barriers. He prepared everything and pressed the needle up against his skin, when the thought of John popped into his head. _What if I died? How would John feel? But… he wouldn’t care would he. He has her now, after all. Though I haven’t told him how I feel. I need to. ___  
The detective sighed and laid down the syringe. He couldn’t carry on without the drugs, he just _couldn’t, _but John needed to know, he deserved to know.__  
The message would be the perfect way to tell him. He hurriedly grabbed his phone and changed it, before lying down on the bed. He slipped the needle into his arm. He felt the drug rush through his system and the words of the message ran through his head.  
_‘Dear John, ___  
_If you’re receiving this message, it means I have died. This most likely happened by me either committing suicide or overdosing accidentally. Why? It’s because I can’t imagine life without you. You’ve ruined me. Because I love you, and now I can’t bear to see you with someone else, with her and not me. I’m sorry John. Don’t feel bad; it’s not your fault, and you have her now. ___  
_Goodbye. ___  
_-Sherlock Holmes’ ___  
A month into his renewed drug addiction, John found him. He had purposely increased his dosage many, many times, hoping it might kill him so he could escape this dreary world. His body seemed determined to survive, probably just to spite him. It lived on, though the heart was but shards in a cavity.  
He had fallen asleep earlier, but was roused from unconsciousness by the most heavenly voice he had ever heard.  
“Do you think I know a lot of people here?” Isaac laughed from behind him, “Hey, all right?” Sherlock rolled over to see John crouching beside the person beside him.  
“Ah, hello, John. Didn’t expect to see you here. Did you come for me too?” An irrational thought, but a welcome one.  
The detective saw John’s face twist into one of unconcealed rage. They left the building, Sherlock loudly complaining, before driving to Bart’s. There, Molly slapped him thrice. Hard. His cheeks burned afterwards, but he could only think of John’s disappointed face.  
He heard Janine leave his bedroom and talk to John through the door of the bathroom. He had previously told Janine he was undercover, when in fact taking drugs. He loathed faking this relationship, especially in front of John, but was a necessary evil. He straight up refused sex.  
On the journey to Magnussen’s building, Sherlock felt an intense combination of love and bitterness, influenced by John’s proximity. He felt love for the man beside him, but bitterness that he couldn’t tell him, and that John would never love him back.  
This thought brought the message to the forefront of his mind. He realised changing it from the current message revolving around his suicide and drug taking to something more fitting would be a good idea. He hurriedly typed out a message on the small keys of his phone until he had composed a surprisingly long message for the amount of time he had to type. He was going to reread it, but the pair had already reached their destination.  
Sherlock felt incredibly happy; he was with John on a case, _together _once again. They entered the building and used the corrupted key card on the door. He felt slightly nauseous as he showed Janine the ring. As soon as the door was open, the fake smile was wiped from his face. He told John the relationship was a lie, and he may have been imagining it, but John looked slightly happy at this. His heart leapt with hope, which he soon quashed with logical thought.__  
Whilst John examined the unconscious bodies, the consulting detective walked to another room. He heard faint but scared murmurings, and turned the corner to see Magnussen on his knees, a gun up to his head. A person (female, shorter than average height, wears Claire De La Lune, some kind of agenda against Magnussen… must be Lady Smallwood) dressed fully in black held the gun.  
“Additionally, if you’re going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume, Lady Smallwood.”  
“That’s… not… Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes.”  
They turned to face Sherlock and he stared into a familiar face.  
Mary.  
Liar. _Liar. **Liar. ** __****_  
“Oh Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you.”  
“No, Mrs Watson. You won’t.” _She wouldn’t. _Sherlock thought. _She couldn’t. She loves John, she saw what my ‘death’ did to him, and she wouldn’t put him through that again, she- _____  
Sherlock heard the shot more than he felt it. He looked down to see red blooming like a flower from the hole in his chest.  
Time felt like it had stopped. Alarms blaring, three words repeating; forwards or backwards?  
Backwards he fell, but now there was shock. He needed calm, he needed comfort. He ran into the wing of his mind palace reserved for John but found it infected with Mary, shooting him again. He needed something else… Redbeard.  
Then there was pain, so much pain, too much pain, too much. He needed it to stop. He dashed into the padded cell where _he _was locked up.__  
Jim Moriarty crouched in the cell, chained up in a strait jacket. His back was to the dying detective.  
“You. You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel pain?” The psychopath turned to face Sherlock.  
“You _always _feel it, Sherlock,” said Moriarty, before suddenly surging towards the other genius, roaring. Sherlock recoiled, though the collar strapping him to the wall prevented his advance. “But you don’t have to feel it!” he continued, as Sherlock suddenly lurched forwards in pain. He was lying on the ground of the cell now.__  
“Pain. Heartbreak. Loss. Death.” Another wave of pain washed through the shot man’s body. “It’s _all _good.”__  
Dimly, Sherlock heard what happened in reality; John shouting his name, Magnussen explaining and the retired army doctor calling 999.  
“It’s raining, it’s pouring, Sherlock is boring,” Moriarty sang in a quiet, haunting voice, “I’m laughing I’m crying, Sherlock is dying!”  
He could faintly hear John telling him they were losing him.  
“Come on, Sherlock. Just die why can’t you? One little push, and off you pop.” Sherlock knew his pulse had stopped. He only had a few more seconds of his brain responding until he was but a corpse. “You’re gonna love being dead, Sherlock. No one _ever _bothers you. Mrs Hudson will cry; and Mummy and Daddy will cry. And The Woman will cry; and John will cry buckets and buckets. It’s him I worry about the most. That _wife _! You’re letting him down Sherlock. John Watson is definitely in danger!”____  
_John! John needs me, _Sherlock thought, _John needs me and I need to protect him, John needs me, John, John, John. _____  
Sherlock started moving, forcing himself to stand up in the cell. It was hard, took time, but he dragged himself onto one elbow and punched the floor, grimacing.  
“Oh, you’re not getting better are you?” Sherlock managed to stand up, staggering. He slumped on the wall beside him, but he was upright at least.  
“Was it something I said, huh?” the criminal taunted. The grin adorning the psychopath’s face faded as the detective glared back breathing heavily. He was drenched in sweat from the sheer _effort _of getting up. He moved away from the wall, groaning in pain, before turning to the door and pushing it open.__  
“John!” Sherlock frantically shouted. Moriarty looked panicked behind him, staring at the detective with wide eyes.  
“Sherlock!” he shouted, as the injured man left the room and slammed the door behind him. Sherlock found himself at the foot of a large set of stairs, the same stairs from him and John’s first case with the pink suitcase. He grabbed the banister and hauled himself up, desperate to get up the stairs. A grimace etched itself across his face for a moment, before a cry of pain was ripped from his mouth.  
In reality, his hand twitched as a blip was heard from the heart monitor.  
Back in his mind, he continued to force himself onwards, upwards, his face a picture of desperation.  
“John!” he cried out, hearing a reply from John of his own name. Up, up, he made himself go. He refused to give up, give in. He focused on 221B; he focused on home, on John.  
Dimly, he heard the heart monitor beating regularly in the background. His eyes blankly stared at the ceiling, a breathing tube down his throat.  
He was alive.  
-X-X-X-  
John sat in the waiting room, left arm trembling quite violently. It had not been this bad since right after the fall and after Afghanistan before he met the consulting detective. He had never felt fear like this before. When Sherlock had jumped, he didn’t have to be left waiting, wondering if he was dead or alive. Thoughts about what would happen if Sherlock died ran through his head. He might not be able to cope with going through it again.  
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he rushed to get it out; any distraction was a welcome one at this point.  
John had received a text from- _no. It couldn’t be him, he was being operated on. _But there it was, as clear as day: ‘Text received from Sherlock Holmes’. He opened the message and began to read:__  
_‘Hello John._  
_This is Sherlock. Before I jumped, I set it up so that this automated text would be sent to you the moment I died, in case something went wrong. After that, I kept the message and changed it before I went on my mission to destroy Moriarty’s network, when I relapsed and during the journey to Magnussen’s office. ___  
_What you need to know is that, when I jumped, I did it for you. Moriarty had assassins trained on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Just the threat of killing you would be enough the others were overkill. After faking my suicide, I went to destroy his network, because I couldn’t risk one of his men finding you and murdering you. ___  
_Upon my return, I was so happy to finally see you after all that time. But you replaced me with Mary and, when I saw the ring… I panicked. I didn’t mean for it to go that way. I’m sorry. ___  
_Before the wedding, I felt nothing but dread of what was to come. I had to literally give you away. I felt like I had a knife jammed inside me, tearing me up. And afterwards, John, John I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to do it, but it was the only thing that could numb the pain, the pain of rejection, the pain of loss. So many times I tried to kill myself, so many times, but it never worked. Thank you for saving me again. You always do it, again and again and again. I am really worth that John? I’m just an obnoxious junkie who caused you so much pain. I can’t be worth that. ___  
_But John, the best moments of my life were when I was with you. You made my world brighter no matter what. I felt complete with you. Utter joy always overtook me whenever we were breathless and laughing about a case or when you complimented me (something no one else had ever done) or just being near you, sitting in 221B typing on your blog whilst I played my violin. When I was away for two years, I was in hell. But after my return, I felt that unbridled joy again. ___  
_Thank you, John. ___  
_When I said you were ‘the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing’, I wasn’t lying. John, you’re such an amazing person… how could I ever think that you- nevermind. ___  
_Boredom was always a problem for me; my mind raced on and on, incessant. Only cases and drugs stopped it. John, you incredible enigma, you stopped it too. It was incredible. But not only that, I felt love. Not the love you have for friends, but real, romantic love. ___  
_John Watson, I love you. ___  
_This love tore me apart, especially when you married Mary. It made me want to die but I haven’t. Well, not until now. ___  
_I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry, so sorry. I’m sorry for the all the hurt and all the pain I have caused you. ___  
_John, it might be hard, but please, please move on. Carry on; don’t become like you did after I fell. Don’t live in pain because of me. I’m sorry. ___  
_Goodbye John. ___  
_-Sherlock Holmes’ ___  
Tears ran down his face as he finished the message. He never knew Sherlock felt that way, that he even had the capacity for such emotions. He never knew that Sherlock did everything for him. John clutched the phone to his chest as he let out a choking sob, desperately trying not to break down.  
Minutes passed. Five, ten. John still sat there, waiting for confirmation of his death. He needed closure. Fifteen minutes passed, twenty. After thirty, the army doctor finally received news.  
“Could John Watson please come up to the receptionist’s desk? Thank you.” He slowly stood up and hobbled over to the desk. His limp was terrible.  
“Are you here for Sherlock Holmes?”  
“Yes, is he-”  
“He’s pulled through. Honestly, it’s a miracle. His heart had stopped long enough to be considered dead, a lost cause, but he somehow came back. It’s amazing, but you can’t see him yet because he is still recovering. You can visit tomorrow.” John stood in shock. _Sherlock… alive. He’s not dead. Thank god. _A quiet cough brought him back to reality.__  
“Oh yeah, um, thank you. Thank you so much. Um, I will just be going then. Thank you, again.” John was still a little dazed, but walked out of the waiting room. He still couldn’t believe it.  
Sherlock was alive.  
-X-X-X-  
The next day, Sherlock woke up after sleeping for well over 15 hours. Finding himself on a hospital bed, he immediately went to sit up, but stopped as the wound sent a burst of pain through him. Looking around, he found his phone on the bedside table. There was nothing else to stimulate his brain, so he reached over, wincing, to pick it up.  
After entering the passcode, a single notification was shown on the screen.  
‘Message sent to John Watson.’  
Sherlock’s face grew deathly pale. Thoughts ran through his head at the speed of sound. _John knows. He knows! He knows I love him, oh god, oh god, will he still want to be my friend? My best friend? Could he… could he love me back? No, no, it’s impossible. Don’t tempt yourself with cruel fantasies; he has Mary, he loves Mary. But Mary! I can’t let John stay with her, she’ll hurt him! But if she loves him and he loves her and she makes him happy. All I want for him is happiness, even if he finds it with someone else. But… does she love him? She shot me even after she saw him after my fall. Should I see how he reacts? Maybe he will lov- no. No, he wouldn’t. ___  
_He wouldn’t. ___  
-X-X-X-  
John was nervously but impatiently waiting for Mycroft to text him. The elder Holmes brother had said that, once Sherlock was awake, he would text him. When the text finally arrived, John leapt off of the sofa he had been sitting on. There was a black nondescript car waiting outside, which he immediately jumped into without hesitation. Anthea sat inside and didn’t bother looking away from her phone, which she was hurriedly typing on, to look at him as he entered. There was silence for the whole journey.  
When John arrived, he was followed by Anthea into the hospital. She overtook him, limp causing him to be rather slow, and led him up, through staircases and corridors to Sherlock’s bed. Once John was there, she left the two men to their privacy. The detective laid there, propped up slightly. He stared at his phone, incredibly pale but unmoving. His eyes were red and puffy.  
“Sherlock?” John said quietly; he didn’t want to surprise Sherlock and make him jump, which may aggravate the wound. Though he was cautious, Sherlock still jolted a little as he looked up, eyes wide.  
“John?” he whispered, voice hoarse. Sherlock felt tears well up in his eyes. John was here; he hadn’t been scared away by the message, hadn’t been disgusted by it.  
“Oh, Sherlock.” John’s voice broke as he said it, overcome with emotion at seeing his best friend alive, not dead as he had thought. He moved forwards but stopped abruptly; he wanted to hug the detective but knew it might hurt him.  
“Sherlock… we need to talk about that message.” _This is it, _the injured man thought, _He’s going to tell me he doesn’t love me. He’s going to tell me he loves the one who… who killed me. He’s going to leave me. He’s going to leave, oh god. _____  
“Do you really feel that way?” John said, with what Sherlock thought might have been hope. _No, don’t imagine that, rejection will only sting more. ___  
“John,” he paused, steeling himself, “I love you, but I know you don’t-”  
“Shut up. Just shut up, you daft git.” The army doctor walked over to him. Sherlock stared as he advanced, trying to deduce why he was drawing closer.  
John lightly placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face. He pressed his lips to the detective’s and John saw as Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock. He felt Sherlock’s lips begin to move against his own, after first hesitating. After a few moments, John pulled away.  
“John, why-”  
“Because I love you, idiot,” John said with a warm grin. The detective was still for a moment, completely taken aback, before he pulled John closer. They kissed again, mouths dancing together with years of repressed emotions being let out to each other. Sherlock sighed into John’s mouth, content.  
The message was finally sent.  
The message was finally sent, and they were in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I hope you enjoyed that. It was my first fanfic, so it might not be the best quality but hey, leave your criticism in the comments. My tumblr can be found in my profile. Thanks to Ariane DeVere for her transcripts.
> 
> Have a nice day
> 
> EDIT: it's midnight and italics have made me crave death


End file.
